


Inferno

by jamestiqueeriuskirk



Series: Inferno [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Bottom Sam, F/F, First Time, Gay Bar, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Shy Sam, Top Lucifer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 06:48:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1256797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamestiqueeriuskirk/pseuds/jamestiqueeriuskirk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Gabriel.” Sam deadpanned.<br/>“Sam.” Gabriel responded, mimicking his tone.<br/>“Is this… a gay bar?”</p>
<p>(Lucifer is a cage dancer. That's it that's the joke)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inferno

**Author's Note:**

> This took forever to write, and it didn't even end up matching my original vision for the story. Oh well, I hope you like it.

“Gabriel.” Sam deadpanned.

“Sam.” Gabriel responded, mimicking his tone.

“Is this… a gay bar?”

They’d pulled up to the only empty space on the street, Gabriel’s banged-up old clunker sputtering to a halt wedged tight between two high-end European sports cars, thanks to his miracle of a reckless parking job (Dean never would have risked it. Then again, it never would have been an issue for Dean, because no way in Hell he’d be caught dead smack dab in the middle of the gayborhood).

“Is it?” Gabriel feigned scandal all too well. “Why, I had no idea!”

A beat.

“Of course it’s a gay bar, Sam, what were you expecting after yesterday’s conversation?”

_“How long’s it been since you got laid, buddy?”_

_“Gabe! That’s not really your business,” Sam had sputtered._

_Gabriel threw up his hands in a placating gesture. “Hey,” he told Sam. “I’m just looking out for my favorite social recluse! Books can take you places, Sam, but second base isn’t one of them. What you really need is some action. We ought to go out tomorrow night. I make a great wingman. We can set you up with some girl who also wants to order bud-lite, and you can go back to her-“_

_“Or his.” Sam had muttered, and that had been the first nail in the coffin._

_“What was that?”_

_“I know you heard me, Gabriel. Is it going to be an issue?”_

_“From me? Ha!” He chortled. “You didn’t really think I was straight, did you? Besides, I already knew.”_

_Sam frowned at him. “You did not.”_

_“It’s not important,” Gabriel dismissed. “What is important is you’ve got double the sexual prospects and you still haven’t done the horizontal hustle since at least college.”_

_“Gabriel!”_

Sam was already regretting letting it slip to his moderately annoying co-worker than he was a little wishy-washy, but when Gabriel started giggling at the expression on Sam’s face, well, that just cemented things.

“Come on,” Gabriel reassured, maneuvering himself out of the car. “It’ll be fun.”

“I don’t know about that,” Sam found himself mumbling as he tried to do the same. It was much harder to extract yourself from a cramped car seat onto a cramped sidewalk when there was six feet four inches of self to extract, but he managed.

Straightening his jeans a little, he turned to the building stretching out in front of him. It was stuck between two other (and, if Sam had to comment, more reputable looking) clubs, not very wide but a few stories tall. The walls were painted a deep crimson, and stuck above the doorway was a big, flashing, neon sign that read “INFERNO,” surrounded by similarly-composed flames.

“Tacky,” he told Gabriel.

“I know!” Gabriel chirped happily. “Wait’ll you see the inside!”

And without further ado, he was being dragged by his shirtsleeve toward the dubious hell-gate of an entrance.

“Gabe, stop. Everyone will think we’re a couple,” Sam complained.

“Ah, trust me, here, they won’t care. It’s-“

What exactly it was, Sam would have to wait until they got inside to find out, because at that moment, they reached the plaster stones lining the doorway, and the bouncer held out his hand in a “halt” motion.

“Gabriel. You know Crowley said you weren’t allowed back here after last time.” Beyond being dressed in all black, he wasn’t exactly what Sam pictured when he thought “sleazy club bouncer,” but the guy still gave him the creeps. He definitely looked like he could handle worse than the likes of them and Sam was torn between being vaguely uneasy at the way the guy’s amber eyes had narrowed with their approach and embarrassed that Gabriel had evidently brought him to a club he was banned from (and Sam squashed his curiosity- there was no way he wouldn’t regret asking for this story).

“Azzy, come on. It was all just a big misunderstanding. Talk to Balthazar-”

“Sorry, bub, no can do,” the guy shook his head ruefully. “Talking to Balthazar won’t help, and you know it.”

“What about talking to Benjamin Franklin and some terrible word art?”

The bouncer- Azzy, apparently- sighed at the purposeful cliché, but he reached out for the proffered hundred dollar bill, snatched it away and stepped aside to let them pass anyway.

The door, it turned out, led into a tunnel made of the same plaster stones as the doorframe, and as they walked down it, Sam turned to his companion.

“You didn’t have to spend the money on me, Gabriel, we could have-“

But Sam’s protests died in his throat when they reached the end of the tunnel.

“ _Wait’ll you see the inside_ ” had been right. Sam’s first thoughts drifted towards “den of iniquity,” but that implied the place had some amount of dignity in its debauchery, a lineage to be traced back to Roman orgies and Victorian court scandals. “Filthy” was probably the word he was looking for, with a little “ridiculous” thrown in as an acknowledgement to the lurid Hell decorations tacked up all over the place.

Despite the normal-building shape of the outer walls, the inside of the club was circular, and the floor was tiered, the outer rim being the highest, the dance floor in the center being the lowest (circles of Hell, he supposed. Cute). The middle layers were scattered with small, round tables, and the layer directly below the top of the floor had a bar fixed into the wall, the counter of which was made of clear glass surrounding flickering, paper flames. A spiral staircase wound to the top of the ceiling, where it disappeared, presumably to the club’s offices.

The waiters all appeared to be dressed in tight, red, and above all, revealing outfits, and the packed dance floor looked intimidating as, well, Hell, but what really struck Sam dumb were the cages.

Yeah, this was too much for him. Suspended at various heights over the levels of the floor with tables were fairly small cages made from spiked, black wire (got to fit the Hell theme), each containing a gyrating dancer in even skimpier clothing than the already fairly embarrassing waiters.

“Isn’t it _great_?”

“If by ‘great’ you mean ‘I’m never letting you pick where we go out again,’ then yes, just great. What happened to that nice girl and a bottle of bud-lite?”

Gabriel frowned at him. “Okay, so it might not be Joe Schmoe’s College-Town Bar and Grill, but give it a chance. I’m sure you’ll find something you like. Or someone.” Sam was about to protest, but Gabriel continued, cutting him off. “If you hate it by the end of the night, we’ll never come back, okay?”

Sam shook his head, knowing full well that since Gabriel was the one with the wheels, he had absolutely no choice in the matter and was going to have to play along anyway, but he acquiesced.

With Sam’s resigned nod, Gabriel visibly perked up. “Fantastic! Let’s get a table.”

It really shouldn’t be possible for someone of Gabriel’s height, diet and exercise regime to drag Sam along so effortlessly, but before he knew it, he was being roughly shoved into a cheap, plastic “throne” that was probably bought in bulk from a Party City warehouse along with all its ugly brothers and sisters.

“Wait here,” Gabriel shouted, having to raise his voice slightly more than he did on a regular basis to be heard over the awful music pumping from the speakers positioned here their table (and really, Jeffree Star? Sam thought even Gabriel’s tastes ran more refined than that). “I’m going for drinks!”

“Don’t bring back something weird, dude!” Sam directed at Gabriel’s retreating form, even though it was likely too late and he’d return with two monstrously fruity concoctions that didn’t even feature on the menu and claim it was “too loud” for him to have heard Sam’s protests.

Without the safety of a companion to hold his attention, Sam felt terribly out of place. Awkward, even. It was dumb, sure. He was a grown man, he had every right to sit and stare pointedly at the table until Gabriel came back. Avoid eye contact with any of the occupants of the next table over, one of whom just whistled at him- no, he had to look. He could always politely tell any unwanted attention to fuck off, he could be intimidating when need be.

Turns out the couple the next table over was just that, a couple, and a lesbian one at that, with eyes only for each other, and the whistle had come from the blond waiter who’d just refilled their drinks. Sam directed a look of _extreme_ disapproval at the man for his unprofessional behavior (and _that’d_ show him), to which the man responded with a wink, and sauntered over to the table on the other side of the passionate, Sapphic couple.

Sam couldn’t go back to being absorbed by the dubious stain on the tabletop now. The waiter would know he’d won and the flush on Sam’s cheeks wasn’t from the red, overhead lights. So, bracing for the worst, he investigated his surroundings instead.

Their table was on the level below the bar, above the dance floor. If Sam peered over the railing, he could make out a swirling mass of bodies at the bottom of a dizzying drop (how had they gotten down there? A ladder?). People watching was only appealing when it didn’t make you feel like a voyeur, though, so Sam turned his eyes upward instead. The nearest cage was a few feet above the heads of the dancers, a little ways away from the railing of Sam’s level. Probably so people could converse with the dancer without being able to grab at him if they were too drunk and decidedly to be unruly. The cage itself was flamboyant, the bars inlaid with false rubies. If it wasn’t for the dancer, Sam would have turned away almost immediately.

This wasn’t really his scene. Not the gay thing, the clubbing thing in general. Dean had tried to take him to a titty bar for his 21st, and he didn’t remember it as anything more than yet another effort at brotherly humiliation. He’d dutifully sat through his lap dance, trying his hardest not to accidently initiate any extra contact lest it be grounds for a lawsuit, and cringed in embarrassment at the awkward comments and sweaty bills Dean passed over to the girl. It wasn’t that he was a prude, by any means. He just thought the whole thing was a bit silly, when you took an objective look at it. He’d really rather spend a night huddled up with a kindred spirit in the corner of a bar somewhere, discussing her dissertation and the difference she hoped to make in the world. And if they went bed at the end of the night, well, he was okay with that. But attraction wasn’t much without intellectual compatibility and emotional connection. Most of the time, he wasn’t struck dumb at the first glance, no matter how alluring the other person was. But, it seemed, this (of all places) was where he was going to have his rare exception.

The dancer in the cage had his back to Sam now, but when Sam’d first laid eyes on him, he was turned in his direction. The guy was blond, and he seemed a little old for a job so…unrespectable, but then, Sam couldn’t really tell in this light. Might’ve just been the shadows on his face, making him seem harsh and aloof and so, so much more dignified than the scantily clad muscle twinks this kind of establishment usually hired for these jobs. Not that the dancer wasn’t displaying his assets for the whole of Inferno to see, but his lack of apparel somehow made him seem more “Olympian” and less “go-go boy”. If Sam suspended his disbelief, he could almost imagine this guy as an ethereal king, reigning over his pit full of bodies writhing in agony rather than ecstasy while the flames rose to the heavens to consume them all.

Okay, maybe that required quite a lot of suspension of disbelief. Point was, the dancer was eye-catching and so very out of place here. Sam tried not to stare, but he was fighting a losing battle with that. At least it was the guy’s job to be stared at.

“I’m back!” A fussy little glass of fairly-normal piña colada was deposited in front of him and Gabriel slid into the chair to his opposite, nursing a frighteningly huge rainbow concoction. “Miss me?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Sam took a distracted sip of his drink. Fruity drinks weren’t his bag, but at least it wasn’t anything weird. “Gabriel?”

“Yes, Sam?”

He’d better get it out now, before he lost his nerve. “You come here pretty often, right?”

“Sure do,” Gabriel responded, tipping his glass in Sam’s direction.

“Do you know who that is? That dancer?” Sam pointed towards the cage overlooking the dance floor.

Gabriel’s eyes followed Sam’s finger, tracing their trajectory towards the cage…right past it to the table on the other side of their ring, where the blond waiter from before had meandered over to.

  
“Him?” Gabriel’s face split into a huge grin. “That’s Balthazar. He’s a host, not a dancer, but he’s a hoot. I can call him over if you’d like.”

“Um, no. That’s okay.” Sam still felt a little flushed from the man’s earlier attention. “I meant him.” Sam was careful this time to be definitive in where he was pointing.

Gabriel frowned discerningly at the cage’s occupant. “Never seen him before,” he told Sam. “Must be new. Funny, they usually start much younger. Cute, though.”

Sam made a noncommittal noise of agreement.

 

The way things went, they didn’t end up leaving the place until well into the morning, Sam sitting around nursing a beer alone for most of the night after Gabriel first abandoned him to the dance floor and later disappeared to a back room with not one but _two_ companions.

He was afraid to gawk outright, but he continued to steal furtive looks at the cage dancer until the end of his shift. Sam was sure it was in his mind, considering how many other people were openly enjoying the performance, but he felt like the guy knew he was interested, and was silently laughing about it- with him or at him.

Finally, Gabriel extracted himself from whatever he’d gotten into and came to collect Sam.

“Let’s get out of here, kiddo.”

 

Sam was glad to stumble into the door of the apartment he and Dean shared, but he wasn’t too pleased to find Dean still awake and sitting in the living room.  
“Where’ve you been, Sammy?” Dean grunted.

“Clubbing,” Sam told him, swaying a little.

Dean, as expected, chortled at that. “And where did you go ‘clubbing’?” The obnoxious air quotations Dean threw up made it pretty clear he thought Sam meant he’d been to an all-night café or something.

“Inferno.” He figured there was little harm in giving Dean the name of a place he’d probably never heard of.

He was wrong. Dean’s eyebrows shot practically into his hairline with that. “Isn’t that a gay bar?”

Sam’s eyebrows mimicked his big brother’s at that. “How would you know, Dean? Something you need to tell me?” He adopted his sweetest tone.

Dean blushed so hard his freckles disappeared and he sunk further into the couch, muttering something that sounded to Sam like “Garth from work…none of your…maybe…free country…”

  
Sam threw back his stupid, buzzed head and laughed.

 

The next day, Sam slept until fucking three in the afternoon, woke for breakfast, and went right back to bed.

Sunday, he spent the better part of the day bumming around the apartment, expertly dodging Dean’s teasing inquiries as to whether he’d had a nice time at Inferno and if he’d be frequenting the place from now on.

“Why, Dean? Trying to time things so we won’t run into each other?”

Dean shut up after that.

 

At work on Friday, Gabriel approached him with a smile too wide to be any sort of innocent. “Sam! Got plans for the night? I was thinking we could close up shop early, head over to this other great spot I know, not a gay bar this time, but-“

“Uh, no, no thanks, Gabriel.” Sam responded. “I’m good. I was just gonna spend the night at home.” He tried not to feel guilty about the lie. Not like Gabriel would miss him, wherever he was going. He’d find someone or someones to occupy him.

 

Immediately after packing up at the end of his shift, Sam got in his car and drove over to Inferno. He didn’t know what was wrong with him, really. He’d never had this happen before. Maybe there’d been something in his piña colada. Surely there was nothing special about this one dancer. Another night there would confirm it. It was just a trick of the light. Adrenaline, from his first time in a new place. A contact high, Gabriel’s enthusiasm rubbing off on him. He was just going to order a drink, sit for a while, and take in the atmosphere. He’d be out and back home by ten.

The bouncer must’ve had a remarkable memory for faces, because he seemed to recognize Sam. Welcomed him back with a knowing smirk, in fact. He still kind of gave Sam the creeps, but he wasn’t going to let it bother him.

Inside the packed club, Sam’s senses were immediately assaulted, his eyes by red strobe lights, his ears by the Scissor Sisters. He cringed. He hadn’t forgotten how gaudy the place was, but his memory had been dulled by time and his hangover. Now he was reminded anew, and why, oh, why could he not have fallen prey to lust at first sight for a dancer who worked at a more tasteful bar?

Well, he was here now and there wasn’t much use in musing over questions like that, so he took a breath and descended to the bar, where he snagged a beer, and found an empty table. It was near the spot he’d been sitting last time, though slightly closer to the cage where Sam’s mystery man had danced.

He was there again tonight, a new, distressingly minimalist outfit for a new night of work, and he didn’t seem to be any less attractive than he had been last week. This was bad. If Sam didn’t watch himself, he’d be head over heels in no time, and wasn’t that just pathetic? Falling for a go-go boy at a trashy gay bar. He’d laugh himself silly if the same thing happened to Dean. There was just something hilarious and piteous about developing a fixation on someone whose job it was to entertain people _in a sex way_. Probably because they were supposed to be appealing for all of an hour, while you were shit-faced, and utterly forgettable come the morning hangover. They were just people doing a crap job, they didn’t enter the field hoping some law intern would notice them and sweep them off their feet and into a better life. They didn’t. And, for the most part, that was reflected in their demeanors. Exotic dancer types were sexy in the least sexy of ways, dolled up in such a manner that their looks would fit everyone and no one’s tastes simultaneously.

Predictable. Sam had never seen the attraction.

This guy, though. He was blond and well-built and, though Sam had no comparison, he assumed tall as well. His motions were fluid, though he practiced the same overdone moves every other dancer in this place employed, and Sam cursed that stupid cage for restricting his view. He wanted a closer look, and not just at the dancing. He wasn’t trying to objectify this guy. He really wished he’d met him at work, or at Starbucks, or, well, just about anywhere. Some place he could strike up a normal conversation, look him in his eyes instead of gawk up at his crotch while he rubbed against the bars of his cage.

But he wasn’t, and Sam was still invested in him, even though he knew he really shouldn’t be. Exotic dancing wasn’t a bandwagon you hopped on to tame the panic of mid-life crisis, so this guy probably had something bad going for him, habits or debts that Sam didn’t need to get involved in. Sam knew this, rationally, however, sometimes, Sam didn’t make the best of decisions, especially when it came to the draw of the dangerous, and the far removed from the normalcy he craved in all aspects of his life save his bed.

Yeah, he was fucked. And not in the way he wanted.

 

Maybe Gabriel was right, and it had been far too long since he’d gotten any action, because he went back yet again. It became a regular thing, in fact. Every Friday night (he’d quickly discovered his dancer didn’t work Saturdays, and god, he was pitiful, but he hadn’t quite reached clubbing-on-Tuesday-nights pitiful. Yet.), he told his friends he wanted a quiet night in and told Dean he was out with friends. Week after week, he found himself back at the table, nursing a beer until all hours of the night, brushing off the advances of underage twinks drunk on their satisfaction at having “fooled” the bouncer into letting them in, making conversation with a few acquaintances he’d picked up within the regular crowd (Charlie was closer to friend status at this point, and he was even at ease around Balthazar now), even dancing, occasionally. It became a routine, and it was frighteningly normal. It would have been comfortable, if at its core it weren’t all still for the dancer he was too afraid to approach. He could have. He usually stayed past the end of his shift. Sam watched him as the maintenance guy lowered the cage, he let himself out and disappeared to the changing rooms, emerging a few minutes later in relatively normal clothing, looking exhausted but not unfriendly. A few times, he’d passed by Sam’s table. Fewer times still, Sam had steeled himself to say something, but lost his nerve at the last minute. That brought this whole thing closer to, well.

 

“ _Pathetic_.”

“Uh, what?” Sam sputtered out of the daze in which he’d passed most of the morning.

There was even more of a glint in Gabriel’s eye that there was ordinarily. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed. Ever since that night at Inferno, you’ve been pining.”

Sam didn’t know what to say to that, so he held his tongue.

“It’s the dancer, isn’t it?” Gabriel pressed on. “The one who works the cage above the dance floor?”

Gabriel was good, but there was no way he was that intuitive.

“Balthazar told me. He’s noticed what you’re after. The whole staff has noticed what you’re after.”

Sam groaned, burying his face in his hands. Great. Mystery man certainly knew what a fucking creep he was. He was glad he’d never worked up the courage to approach him, because he’d surely have been met with a turned up nose. Now he’d never have a chance at…whatever fantasy scenario he was subconsciously hoping would come true.

“Stop that,” he was promptly admonished. “I can’t stand it when you pity yourself. Not like it’s unusual for people to fall in love with strippers-“ Sam opened his mouth to protest that he wasn’t _in love_ , and the guy wasn’t a stripper, but Gabriel’s next words were “Besides, Lucifer doesn’t mind. Balthazar said so.”

“His stage name is _Lucifer_?”

 

He cannot believe he let Gabriel bully him into this. He is incapable of believing such a thing could ever, under any circumstances, happen to him, so he’s just going to pretend for the moment he’s fallen in into a parallel universe wherein he’s actually receptive to Gabriel’s schemes and parallel-Sam has agreed to receive a lap dance from a _male exotic dancer named Lucifer_ , so until such time as he can rediscover the tear in the space-time continuum he fell through, he’ll have to go along with it.

Apparently, Charlie is in on this too, the traitor, because she’s seated at the “birthday table,” a specially-lurid table situated on a raised dais on the first tier of the club, the “throne of Hell” behind it for the lucky birthday boy or girl to suffer their semipublic humiliation at the hands of club staff and over enthused friends alike. She waves them over with a chipper “Hey, guys! Thought you’d never make it. Happy birthday, Sam.”

“Thanks,” he tells her, gingerly, because while the sentiment seems genuine enough, she’s had a hand in this campaign, too, how happy can she want him to be?

Okay, he’s being silly. And paranoid. They’re not doing this out of malicious intent. Maybe a little. But for the most part they want to nudge him in the direction of what he wants. And god, does he want.

“Sit down!” Gabriel all but forces him into the Hell throne. “I’m going to go for Lucifer.”

Sam allows himself to be pushed over into the chair, and turns to Charlie as Gabriel waltzes off. “I didn’t know you two knew each other.”

“Mm, not well. We met here, but he sometimes comes by my place for a little Magic.”

And Sam was just about to open his mouth, to tell Charlie he was so glad she’d told him, because he could hold that over Gabriel forever (really, Magic: The Gathering, it was gonna have an impact on Gabriel’s reputation) when the man in question returned, accompanied by Lucifer.

The first thing Sam noticed is that he didn’t _walk_. He walked to the dressing room, and from the building, but he was on the clock now, and he _strutted_. It didn’t make him look silly, or flamboyant (well, maybe a little flamboyant, but not the same way as, say, Gabriel), but powerful. He looked like he was in charge, and expecting everyone in the room to bow in awe of his beauty, and Sam almost wanted to.

He approached them, Gabriel on his heels, reaching the tail-end of what was probably a laundry list of things Gabriel wanted out of Sam’s lap dance: “And he loves dirty talk, make sure to work plenty of that in!”

Lucifer shot him a withering look, like he could see through Gabriel and found his deliberate misleading displeasing. Disdain suited his features, but Sam really wished he could go over and kiss all the scorn from his face.

He couldn’t, of course. Fluid exchange was usually forbidden in these circumstances.

Not crumbling under Lucifer’s harsh gaze, Gabriel smacked him on the chest in a comradely fashion, motioning for him to go to Sam. Lucifer turned his sights on Sam, eyes narrowing in the way Sam pictured a tiger’s might when they fell upon a gazelle, struck motionless with fear, unable to run away (and that might be one of the creepier metaphors Sam’s brain has come up with, but that’s how he feels: trapped, with no possibility of or desire for escape). He nods and closes the gap between he and Sam so fast Sam’s head spins.

“Um. Hi?” He let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. _Smooth_. He’s gonna make a great lawyer someday with a tongue like that.

“Hello, Sam,” Lucifer’s voice was dark, tantalizing, a promise of things to come. Sam realized it was the first time he’d heard the man speak, and it got the blood pumping (in a generally downward direction, for the most part).

Lucifer planted a hand on the back of Sam’s chair, one to each side of Sam’s head, and lowered himself into Sam’s lap, without preamble.

“Oh.” Sam mouthed, looking up at Lucifer’s face, licking his lips nervously at what he saw there.

After properly situating himself in Sam’s lap, Lucifer ghosts his fingers down Sam’s chest, splaying them out on Sam’s hipbones, and Sam can’t help but notice, those fingers are long and just a bit calloused and they’d probably be Heaven, absolute _Heaven_ , wrapped around his cock, which twitches with interest at the thought. Lucifer must notice it, because he smirks and trails his wonderful hands back up to grasp at Sam’s face, stroking over his cheek, close to his lips, which are parted to release ragged breaths.

“I don’t hear any talking!” Gabriel shouts from across the table, and Sam could probably murder him right now, aided by Lucifer, if the look he throws over his shoulder is any indication of how he feels. But he turns, focusing his attentions back on Sam, leaning in close to breathe against his ear.

“Come here often?”

Sam startles, unsure how to respond to such a tired cliché, but as he draws back he realizes Lucifer’s eyes are full of mirth. He’d seen Sam, night after night, all those weeks, stealing glimpses between tentative sips of beer, turning away every time the dancer’s sultry gaze settled on him.

“You’re making fun of me.”

Lucifer rolls his hips forward, and Sam’s breath hitches. “A little.” Lucifer admits. “I see you around all the time.”

“I like the atmosphere.” Sam tries, painfully aware of the awful Euro trash pop pumping through the sound system overhead.

“Sure.” Lucifer’s seen right through it. “Your boyfriend certainly is permissive.”

“Huh? Oh, Gabriel. He’s not, we’ve never-“

“His loss.” Lucifer’s voice is collected, smooth and even, but his hips are rocking against Sam’s, his fingers threading through Sam’s hair, and Sam has to say something else before he does something very, very stupid and very, very against club policy, like try to kiss him.

“Why’d you decide to call yourself Lucifer?” is the first thing to come to mind (the first coherent question to come to mind, really. Plenty of _things_ are coming to mind, at the moment, none of them appropriate). “I mean, it fits, but most people aren’t really aroused by the Devil.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t believe the clientele I get. You certainly seem to like it.” And Sam almost cringes at that, the reminder that to Lucifer, he’s just a paying customer, nothing more to him than a way to make a few bucks. There’s no spark here, no romance, there will be no fumbles in a darkened back room later tonight, just a thank you and an exchange of dollar bills, but Lucifer half-way rises from Sam’s lap, tightening his fingers against Sam’s scalp and tossing his head back as he sinks back down, coming to rest a hair’s breadth above Sam’s straining cock, and Sam forgets about it again.

“I didn’t pick this name,” Lucifer admits, and Sam’s breathing has grown wet and messy, but it slows at this, Sam sensing Lucifer is going to reveal something serious from the slight frown marring his attractive features. “Crowley did.”

His brow furrows, and Sam would like to reach forward and smooth the frown from his lips with his finger, but that’s inappropriately intimate, so he satisfies himself instead with asking “Who’s Crowley?”  
“The owner of Inferno. He bought the place, after I had to sell.”

Sam starts at that. “You used to own this place?”

“I did.” Lucifer nods, lip curling up from its frown to a more disdainful expression. “It was a much higher-end club back then. I started as a dancer, worked my way to the top.” He sighs. “Everything was fine until Crowley bought the place across the street, drew all my customers away. He’s just a better business man than I am. I lost so much money, I had to close down, and he bought the building to open a counterpoint to his other club.” Sam vaguely remembers being aware of the bar across the street, Crossroads, but he’d never been inside. “I was out of a job, and Crowley offered me work.” He sounds bitter about it, and Sam can’t blame him. The moment is no longer sexy, but Sam’s enrapt.

“It was his idea, my stage name. To show how far I’d fallen.” He sounds downright bitter now, and Sam can’t help it, he leans in to brush his lips against Lucifer’s.

After pulling back, he realizes what he’s done, and starts stuttering out an apology, but Lucifer shushes him with another peck on the lips. Lucifer cradles Sam’s face in his hands, one rubbing circles into the back of his neck, the other pressed against his cheek, and Sam doesn’t understand how they can be so cold, so cold when the room is so hot, when his body pressed against Sam’s is searing with heat. “Oh, Sam. You’re absolutely perfect.”

And Sam isn’t sure how much that statement is heartfelt, how much it’s playful mocking, but he doesn’t have time to worry about that, Lucifer’s pulling his face in for another kiss, deeper this time, hot and wet, Sam wanting to take an active role but finding himself pressed into the chair while Lucifer’s tongue does what it will with Sam’s.

A cheer breaks them apart, the both of them turning rapidly to find Charlie and Gabriel looking both shocked and proud, Gabriel wiping a mock tear from his eye, Charlie mouthing “Knew you had it in you!” and nodding furiously.

Lucifer turns back to Sam and leans in to worry at Sam’s earlobe with his teeth. “How about we leave these two and go somewhere else?”

All Sam can do is nod, overwhelmed, and Lucifer stands, tugging Sam up after him. Lucifer clasps Sam’s hand in his own and pulls him along. Sam looks back to Charlie and Gabriel to find both of their jaws have dropped, though Gabriel finds the presence to flash him a thumbs up before he disappears into the crowd.

“Will you get in trouble for this?” Sam calls, Lucifer ahead of him being practically swallowed up by the bodies around them.

“Only if Crowley catches us.” Comes the reply, and Sam really, really hopes the thick crowd can mask them from anyone who might report this to him.

Turns out Sam doesn’t have long to worry, because they’ve reached a door, which Lucifer opens, instantly sweeping Sam out of the jostling masses and into a kiss in the privacy of whatever darkened room they’ve ended up in.

Sam moans into the kiss, allowing himself to be roughly pressed back into the wall, Lucifer pushing up against him. Lucifer drops his hand down to palm at Sam’s cock while he licks his way into Sam’s mouth. Sam gasps, allowing Lucifer full access to his mouth as he arches into his touch. Lucifer lowers his other hand to Sam’s pants, undoing the button and zipper, sliding them down just enough to allow access to Sam’s cock. He draws it out, one hand closing hot and slick around the base while his other snakes around to Sam’s back, fingers splaying out on the back of Sam’s shoulders. The hand on his cock jerks forward, and Sam thrusts into the tight fist.

Lucifer breaks the kiss and Sam almost chases after his lips in protest, but Lucifer turns his attentions instead on Sam’s neck, kissing little circles until he finds a particularly sensitive spot, judging by Sam’s keen, where he fixes his mouth and sucks, hard. Sam’s hands fly up to Lucifer’s hair, clutching at him, drawing him closer, wanting more of that wonderful mouth, not just on his neck but absolutely everywhere, and now Lucifer’s added teeth to the mix, just a little nip, briefly, but Sam wants so much more.

“Harder,” he hisses out, chest heaving as he pants his pleasure. He’s rewarded by a hard scrape of Lucifer’s canines down the column of his neck while his hand rubs over the head of Sam’s cock, thumb brushing the slit. His touch grows lighter until he withdraws his hand completely, and Sam makes a noise of protest, but now Lucifer’s dropped to his knees, and there’s no way Sam’s going to protest this. Lucifer mouths at him briefly, licking a hot stripe down Sam’s length before swallowing him down completely in one expert move.

Holy shit.

Sam bucks into the slick heat of Lucifer’s mouth, and Lucifer hollows his cheeks around Sam, rocking back and forth along his cock. Sam, at first, holds back, wary of bruising Lucifer’s nose with his pelvis, but Lucifer hums around his cock, drawing him further in by clasping Sam’s ass in his hands and Sam can’t help but to jerk forward. And this is embarrassing, he’s nearing the edge, this isn’t fair, he wants Lucifer to fuck him, really wants Lucifer to fuck him, but if Lucifer continues his ministrations he’s going to cut the night short.

“Lu…Lucifer,” Sam gasps out, head resting against the wall. “If you don’t stop, I’m…I’m gonna-“

That’s all he can manage, but Lucifer seems to get the point, because his lips twitch around Sam in what can only be a smirk, and he withdraws, pausing for the briefest of moments to elicit another moan by lapping at the head. “Well,” he tells him, and it’s downright unfair, how he can sound so calm, even now, when Sam is just about at the end of his rope. “We can’t have that.” He nips Sam’s hipbone. “Turn around.”

And oh, Sam’s never done this before, but there’s a first time for everything, really, he’s long overdue to try it and he thinks he gets whiplash from how quickly he turns, scrambling to obey Lucifer. After turning, he drops his pants completely, boxers and all, kicking them to the side.

Faced with Sam’s ass, Lucifer strokes himself languidly, reaching behind him to fumble for one of the tubs on the lower-lying shelves. His fingers clasp it, and he draws it to him. God bless the supply closet.

Sam’s braced his hands against the wall when he feels the first swipe of Lucifer’s tongue, beginning just below his hole and traveling upwards, all the way to his lower back. Lucifer descends again, licking at Sam, prodding his tight entrance with his tongue. He spreads Sam’s cheeks with his hands, allowing himself better access. He licks at Sam again, swirling his tongue around Sam’s entrance before prodding past it, tentatively, not sure how Sam will react.

Sam reacts well, it turns out, whining high in his throat and huffing out short, desperate breaths. Lucifer pushes in further, feeling the muscle give way for his tongue, plunging in until he hit just the right spot that made Sam gasp and push back onto his tongue. He licks at the spot for a moment, flicking at it with his tongue, before pulling all the way out again, swiping around Sam’s hole and then dipping back in, forcing in more of his tongue this time, pushing Sam open oh so gently. Pleased by Sam’s responsiveness but needing to keep things moving (sure, he’d like very, very much to spread Sam before him and slowly lick him open, rimming him for ages until Sam’s so desperate he can’t take it, but time isn’t on their side here. Anyone could walk in, any old time), he drew back, grabbing the little tub and unscrewing the lid, dipping two fingers into the lube inside and bringing them to press at Sam’s hole. Sam was already relaxed and anticipating it, and the fingers sunk in with little resistance. He scissored them, stretching Sam’s rim before adding a third finger to the mix, rubbing at Sam’s prostate while coaxing his muscles open. While he did so, he pressed sloppy kisses against Sam’s hips, relaxing him.

Once he was satisfied, he pulled his fingers out and stood, shucking off his skimpy dancer’s outfit as he did so. Sam whined at the loss, but he wouldn’t be whining long. He reached over to one of the higher shelves and produced a condom from a basket there. He tore the wrapper and rolled it on, then collecting the bulk of the lube from the little tub and rubbing it along his length.

He returned to Sam, grabbing Sam’s hips and positioning his cock at Sam’s entrance.

“This okay?” He whispered, licking his way up to Sam’s ear, assuming he knew the answer but wanting to at least make sure Sam knew he could back out now if he’d changed his mind.

Sam released a shuddering breath. “Oh. Yeah.” He told Lucifer as he trained one hand on Sam’s nipple, rolling it between his fingers. “This is more than okay.”

“Good.” Lucifer mumbled, using his free hand to guide his cock, pressing into Sam.

Sam gasped as Lucifer’s fat cock breached him. Despite Lucifer’s ample preparation job, he could feel his eyes watering, but he didn’t want him to stop, absolutely not, this was perfect. Lucifer pushed in maybe halfway, withdrawing and pressing back in slightly more this time. Sam rocked back, wanting more, wanting Lucifer all the way inside of him, and Lucifer obliged, thrusting forward, violently almost and that caused Sam to cry out, not gasp or shudder, but genuinely cry out, and throw back his head. Clasping one hip tight, Lucifer thrust again, hand on Sam’s chest trailing down, leaving stinging in the wake of his nails. It reached his cock, and Lucifer resumed his earlier ministrations, fingers slicker still from leftover lube, rubbing over the head and down the length, wrist twisting every time he reached the base, all while he thrust forward forcefully, driving Sam closer and closer to the edge. He fastened his teeth to Sam’s neck, hard enough to bruise, there would be bruises tomorrow and everyone would know Sam spent the night with someone, even if there was no way to let them all know it was him.

Sam reached behind him to clasp Lucifer’s wrist, and Lucifer knew he was ever so close. He allowed Sam to guide his other hand to his cock, and he ghosted his fingers down Sam’s thigh while the hand already at work sped up, twisting along Sam’s length until he was spurting over Lucifer’s hand, the wall, and Lucifer was probably going to have to clean that up but who cares because Sam was making the most beautiful of noises, helpless little sounds as he rode out his orgasm into Lucifer’s palm, and that was enough to tip Lucifer over too, bucking like crazy in a few, final, brutal thrusts that Sam didn’t seem to mind one bit, if the way he clenched around him was any indication.

Lucifer rested his forehead against the back of Sam’s neck, panting a little and coming down from his high. Sam’s locks are soaked through with sweat, but he doesn’t mind, he kisses where his hair ends as Sam’s head falls forward towards the cool, closet wall. That wasn’t what he expected to come of the night (definitely not what he expected), but he had no complaints. Behind him Lucifer stirred, pulling out and away and moving around, presumably disposing of the condom. As the flush left his cheeks, rational thought returned to him, and he felt just the slightest tinge of despair. Sure, Lucifer had been all over him a moment ago, but now he’d go back to work, content but not moved, and Sam would leave and be plagued by memories of Lucifer’s mouth for ages to come. Hell, Lucifer probably did this all the time. It was just a perk of the job for him, and Sam was going to have to not take it personally.

Easier said than done, but when Sam peeled away from the wall to face the closet, Lucifer smiled at him, muted but sincere, looking satisfied as a cat that’s just fallen in love with its saucer of cream, and Sam’s worries faded to the back of his mind. “Ready to face your friends again?” He asked him.

Sam nodded, collecting his clothes from the floor and pulling his pants back on. Lucifer walked past him, to the door, pressing a kiss to Sam’s temple as he passed, and Sam’s heart surged with hope for a repeat performance.

Lucifer turned the handle and pulled the door in, turning back to beckon for Sam to follow him. He stepped outside the closet and found himself nose-to-nose (well, more like nose-to-chest. The guy was short) with Crowley.

 

Gabriel was babbling.

“It’s all my fault. Really, never should have gotten you that stupid lap dance. Stupid, stupid. Now the poor guy’s out of a job, and it’s because of me. Well, really, it’s because of you-“ Sam frowned. “But it can all be traced back to me. I’m the root of the problem.”

They were sitting on the curb outside Inferno, the streetlight illuminating their sad, little scene. Charlie had left with a biker chick in a leather jacket long before Sam and Lucifer finished their little foray in the supply closet, and Lucifer had been marched right up to Crowley’s office before Sam and Gabriel were escorted out and asked kindly never to come back, we-mean-it-this-time-Gabriel.

“You didn’t cause it. It’s my fault.” Sam told him, absolutely miserable, burying his face in his hands. He was now going to be responsible for Lucifer losing his job, the only job he had available to him and already a step down from what he was used to. All because he just couldn’t be a reasonable adult and not sleep with the go-go boy. He wasn’t sure whether he ought to stay and apologize to Lucifer or get the Hell out while he still had time (and really, which was worse “Sorry we fucked in the closet and you lost your job” or booking it and leaving no forwarding address?). He was leaning towards staying and trying to say something to Lucifer. That much at least was his responsibility.

“You are absolutely right. It is your fault.” Gabriel conceded.

“Thanks.” Sam mumbled. What a great friend.

“But here’s the thing: I’ve done a lot worse. Plus, it isn’t like you were trying to get him in trouble. You just weren’t thinking. So take responsibility for it so far as you think you need to, but don’t beat yourself up too hard, kid.”

Sam nodded.

“Sure you don’t want me to stick around for moral support?” At the shake of Sam’s head, Gabriel rose, dusting off his jeans. “Okay. Don’t wait up too long. See you around.”

He started off to his car, reaching about the halfway point before turning around and shouting “If Lucifer doesn’t kill you, that is!” Then walking away.

 

Sam waited. He waited a long time, in fact. Longer, probably, than Gabriel would have advised. The late-night crowds always packing the streets around here began to disperse, and Lucifer had still not emerged. Maybe he’d gone out the back way?

The club reached closing time, and Azazel locked up the front door, passing Sam on his way to, well, wherever he was going, pausing momentarily to shake his head at Sam and pat him on the back in an avuncular but vaguely patronizing way, leaving Sam feeling more uneasy than reassured.

 

The street was completely quiet, and Sam was maybe ten minutes away from giving up and going home when he heard footsteps behind him. They got louder, and finally Lucifer dropped down to the curb beside him. He was dressed in ratty work jeans and an old Pride shirt, a bag full of what was probably the contents of his locker slung over his shoulder.

He prefaced what he was going to say with a sigh. “Well. Looks like I have to find a new job.”

Sam felt sick. “I’m so, so, sorry, Lucif-“ and then he stopped, feeling even worse. He didn’t even know the guy’s real name.

Lucifer held up his hand. “It’s okay. I hated working for Crowley. He was an asshole. He was looking for an excuse to fire me, anyway. Balthazar does that all the time and he’s never even been officially warned. I should have quit a long time ago, but I stayed on. For sentimental reasons, I suppose.”

He looks so lost, and Sam wants to lean in and kiss him, but after all of tonight’s events, he’s not sure that will be welcomed.

“What will you do now?” He asks.

“I’ll be fine, Sam. I can find work somewhere else. Hopefully a managerial position. If not,” he shrugs. “I’m a good dancer.”

Sam thinks he’s an excellent dancer, but he wants to hold back from any comments that could be seen as sexually charged, for the time being.

He wants to know, beyond a doubt, that Lucifer will be okay. He wants to be able to call and check in on him, from time to time. Maybe more often. He wants to take him out. To take him home. He wants to know his real name. Mostly, right now, he wants to kiss him.

“Say something, Sam.” Lucifer pleads.

“Can I kiss you?” Damn it, no, that wasn’t what he was supposed to say at all.

Lucifer makes a noise of surprise, but it’s not a bad noise, and he even manages the barest hint of a smile. “Go for it.”


End file.
